Elementary My Dear Agent
by Just Warp Away
Summary: In a parallel universe, Kate never joined the B.A.U. Instead, new recruit Maria Taylor joins the fray and strikes up a friendship with the resident genius Dr. Spencer Reid. As the team embarks through the cases and conflicts of Season 10 with their newest member, the chemistry is obvious to all but the duo. Will their relationship ignite or simply carry on as is? Let's find out...
1. Chapter 1: Coin Flip

Chapter 1: Coin Flip

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" **If a coin comes down heads that means that the possibility of its coming down tails has collapsed. Until that moment the two possibilities were equal. But on another world, it does come down tails. And when that happens, the two worlds split apart."** – _Philip Pullman (The Golden Compass)_

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It was my mother who always told me that life was a string of choices, each moment a decision that leads into another decision that leads into eternity. Not even death makes it end. A person's death is simply an opportunity for another person to make a choice. At least that's what she believed. I always wanted to believe it as well. Always wanted to think that she was right… And I did believe it, I do believe it. But I don't believe that people make the choices that benefit society or even their loved ones. My faith in humanity was shattered the day I brought Charlie home from school. Dad was supposed to pick him up. I was supposed to be in a lecture on Shakespearean literature at college. I just figured he was hungover, he hadn't been doing well ever since our mom died a few months before in the September eleventh terrorist attacks. Coming home to find your father shot through the head in a pool of his own blood with your teenage brother standing behind you is a sight that is impossible to forget. The whole world mourned the thousands of deaths of that horrible day. A few weeks later my family mourned one more that didn't have to happen.

But that was nearly thirteen years ago now. Since then a lot has changed. I joined the FBI for starters, following in my mom's footsteps as a government agent. Although Quantico certainly isn't the Pentagon but I like it here. I like living with my brother Marcus and his husband Randy, someone's got to be the breadwinner am I right? Ever since Randy's accident left him paralyzed from the waist down I'd moved in to help. Seeing as most of my work in catching sex offenders was digital it wasn't that hard to run home to help if he needed me. But after Marcus' teaching job steadied out and Randy got more independent and especially after they adopted Alec and Chloe, it became more of a family environment again. My best friend had adjusted to life in a wheel chair, my brother had his dream job and life with his husband and two kids, and I got to come home every day to my wonderful niece and nephew who long ago had begged me to let them call me mom. After a long discussion with Marcus and Randy or 'Pops' and 'Dad' on that one, I agreed. I always wanted children of my own but for now, this was perfect.

Well, other than the panic…

* * *

"They're gonna hate me, I just know it! I'm totally gonna flake on the interview! Did you know one of their guys has six degrees?! Six?! How do I compete with that?! Yeah I speak a lot of languages and I'm slightly above average at math and I'm good at catching sex offenders but this is serial killers! And I only just passed my physical exam! What if they know that it was just a fluke that I passed the physical exam and deny my application? I mean we both remember high school! I could never run faster than a ten minute mile! How I managed to get it down to seven in time for the exam I don't even know! OH! What am I gonna do Randy?!" I slam my hands down on the arm-rests of my best friend and brother-in-law's wheelchair, looking up with puppy dog eyes at his completely not amused face.

"Maria…" He never calls me Maria. "You need to take a deep breath…" Oh no, he agrees with me doesn't he?! "And stop scaring your cat." What? I turn around and sure enough my old as hell fifteen year old cat has moved from his nap on my bed and fled into my open closet. I chuckle sheepishly, shoving myself back up as I adjust my blazer and take Randy's advice. Deep breaths… Deep… Breaths…

"It's not working."

"Try harder."

"What kind of advice is that?"

"Good advice."

"I hate you."

"I love you too."

I glare at the smirking man before me suddenly wishing I was wearing heels, why did I choose dress shoes again? Oh yeah, because I hate heels. But right now I want to be more than a few inches taller than Randy. So much for that growth spurt back in college. If you can even call a half inch a growth spurt. I mean I like being short, it gives me an excuse to climb on stuff and people don't complain when I sit on them and I can take a nap in a chair without feeling squished but when it comes to intimidation tactics, it leaves any glare I shoot feeling extremely lackluster.

"Bye dad! Bye… mom? What are you still doing home?" Chloe looks at me in confusion and I stare back at my thirteen-year-old niece with an echoed expression of emotion. What is she talking about? Wait. Junior High starts at eight. She's heading out now. Alec has already gone to the High School. My interview is at eight…

"OH SHIZ!" I quickly grab my purse and hug Randy goodbye, kissing Chloe on the head before racing out the door to my car. "Be good at school! Don't talk to strangers! Look both way before you cross the streets! I'm talking to you Randy!" With a slam of my car door, I'm off. A powder blue jeep may not seem fitting to an FBI agent but it's that or the freaking violet mini-van with the handicap ramp attachment. Yeah, I'm never switching cars with Marcus. NEVER. AGAIN.

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Despite my best efforts I barely make it in time. The tick-tick of my watch is nearly spinning me into a panic attack as if my spiraling thoughts aren't enough. Straightening my blazer I, as calmly as possible, press the button for the sixth floor. Just as the door is about to ding shut a brown bag is stuck between it, severing the invisible beam of the motion sensor and reopening the doors. My hand has at this point flown to my chest in an attempt to calm my heart which I swear has stopped pumping oxygen and decided adrenaline was the current priority. A casual apology and greeting from the startling door stopper has me drawn back into the world of reality.

"Um, m-morning, which floor?" I manage to spurt out, gesturing vaguely at the panel of buttons as I'm suddenly hit with an overwhelming sense of de-ja-vu. Slightly messy mop of brown hair, approximately five years my senior, gorgeous hazel eyes with an intelligent gleam, and the presence of a man with limited social skills. I swear I've seen him somewhere before. Not wanting to seem like a whack-job, I turn my gaze to the wall as he responds.

"Uh, sixth, pl—hmm, you too." There is an almost curious silence as the doors ding shut and I can practically feel his gaze boring a hole into my skull as the gears in his head turn. Apparently I'm not the only one wondering where we've met before. "Watson." I turn to look at him and arch an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"You said you connected more with Watson than with Sherlock."

"What?"

"Baker's Books on fifth last week."

The gears in my head turn and the confusion is blatant on my face before my mind snaps back to the week before and my trip the bookstore to escape even just briefly from my anxiety over the upcoming job opportunity that I was now headed to.

 **~ WE INTERRUPT OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED STORY TO BRING YOU THIS IMPORTANT FLASHBACK ~**

"Just a… little… more…." I whispered to myself under my breath, my fingertips only just skimming the very edge of the book's spine despite having crawled onto the second shelf and extended my arm as far as it would go. I was about to give up and storm into the back, ranting at Sebastian and Nicole for putting up such high bookshelves in their cute little store when a masculine voice appeared beside me.

"Um, excuse me, but would you like some help?" I turned to the man who had suddenly appeared to my right, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over me at the position he'd found me in. I swallowed the nervous laughter threatening to rise up in my throat and nodded, carefully stepping down from the shelf I'd perched on. "Sherlock Holmes?" He reached up towards the top shelf and quickly shook my head once more, still trying to assure myself that if I opened my mouth nothing stupid would come out. With an ease that my 5' 2" frame could never supply, he plucked the book off the shelf and handed it to me.

"T-Thanks," I murmured, grinning brightly at the hard-cover book now held like a precious treasure against my chest. The stranger opened his mouth to say something only to be interrupted by a middle-aged woman barging through, grabbing a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, and then shoving back between us to go towards the front of the store. Stormy blue met hazel as we glanced first after the woman then at each other before bursting into laughter. "D-Did that really j-just happen?" A nod on his behalf had the two of us on the floor against the bookshelf in a renewed fit of amusement.

That was how we stayed for, what? Three hours? It was at least that sitting, on the floor side by side, our backs against the bookshelf as we laughed over the woman and discussed Sherlock Holmes and even had a tangent or two about Doctor Who and the many works of Charles Dickens and Shakespeare respectively. He spouted facts like a fountain and I eagerly drank up every one. Whether they were truly factual or not, I didn't know, but regardless it was food for thought; and what intellectually stimulating thoughts they were. I'd met a lot of intelligent people before, heck my ex-boyfriend had been a borderline genius, but that failed for the same reasons conversations like this usually did for me: I couldn't measure up. I was smart, yes, an IQ of 137 is nothing to sneeze at, but meeting someone who wouldn't talk down to me for not being at their level of intelligence was like a breath of fresh air after a long snowstorm. The friendly connection of my admiration of his intelligence and his respect of my, admittedly much less brilliant, contributions to our conversation had my brain drawing parallels between the two of us and Sherlock and Watson. This drew a seemingly random laugh from me and a look of confusion from my new friend.

"I was just thinking that you'd make a great detective, like Sherlock Holmes, which I suppose in this situation makes me Watson."

"You wouldn't want to be Sherlock?"

"Nah, I find I connect more with Watson than I do with Sherlock."

"Really? Why is th-?" He was cut off mid-sentence by the ring of his phone, scanning the message before I could so much as blink. "I have to go, work." He reached out a hand to help me up and I gratefully accepted. As he turned and started to leave, I called after him.

"Hey, maybe I'll see you again!" He shot me a brief smile before swiftly heading out the door, leaving me much happier than I'd been when I'd entered a worried mess. Only to then realize something… "Hey wait! I didn't catch your…" Even now outside he was already long gone. "…name…"

 **~ AND NOW BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED STORY ~**

A smile sneaks its way onto my lips as the memory resurfaces. "Nice to see you again too, Sherlock. Sorry it took me a moment to recollect, I'm so nervous my memory is practically shorting out." Lightly giggling at the effect my nerves are having I take a deep breath as the elevator doors ding open.

"Don't worry about it," he responds with that same small smile from our previous meeting, holding open the glass door to the B.A.U.

"Ah, thank you kind sir," I bow slightly with a wide grin in my face, already feeling better. The nervous butterflies have flown the coop and left nothing but this morning's breakfast behind. Eww... What is with that metaphor?

"Agent Hotchner's office is the first one at the top of the stairs," he says gesturing at a small staircase against the wall. "Good luck."

"Thanks, I appreciate it…" I turn back to face him. "Maria Taylor by the way, I just realized we still don't know each others names."

"Spencer Reid." Wait. What? Reid. As in Agent Reid? As in Dr. Spencer Reid the B.A.U.'s one and only resident genius with six degrees? Well at least that's one of my recurring thoughts handled. The B.A.U.'s prodigy and I get along just fine, that's a decent start.

I flash a smile, "… Dr. Reid. Thank you, Dr. Reid." Then I turn and head straight to Agent Hotchner's office door, knocking lightly. Upon hearing the faint 'come in', I enter, much more confident than I was when I woke up this morning about what the future holds and the possibility that the B.A.U. will be a part of it.

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" **Pearls don't lie on the seashore. If you want one, you must dive for it."** – _Chinese Proverb_

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 _This is my first Criminal Minds fan-fiction so I do apologize if Reid seems out of character. I am a huge fan of the series and will strive to improve my representation of the characters I've come to love so much over ten, and soon to be eleven, seasons. Any and all feedback is appreciated! And for those who may ask, yes the assumption here is that you were chosen instead of Kate Callaghan for the open position in the B.A.U. This story will follow the same general situations (at least case wise) as Season 10 but will only focus on new recruit Maria Taylor and our beloved genius Dr. Spencer Reid with the others acting more as support and at times background characters. Expect this to be a slow build to romance and for it to start out as friendship. I also do not have a Beta Reader so any grammatical mistakes are my fault (I reread it three times but I may have missed some) and will be corrected as found. Thank you so much for reading and I would love to hear from you!_

 **~ Warp Out**


	2. Chapter 2: The Sea of Regret

Chapter 2: The Sea of Regret

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Author's Note

(Feel free to skip)

Before the chapter starts I want to thank everyone who commented thus far! I also want to give a big shout-out of gratitude to ILR's review which helped me realize that I may have phrased my previous author's note rather poorly. When I expressed that all characters other than Taylor and Reid would be "…support and background…" I was referring to perspective. The story is going to be rotating between being told by Taylor and being told by Reid. This doesn't mean that the team isn't going to play a pivotal role in the story but more that some plot points that were important in the original series, aren't going to be touched upon due to the first-person perspective. Things such as private conversations between Garcia and Morgan, moments of family bonding between Hotch and Jack, and the vast majority of episode two due to its focus on Garcia. It's not that these things aren't going to happen or be important, but that they won't be witnessed because neither Taylor nor Reid are physical present. There will be mentions if it's implied that these events were discussed with the rest of the group but otherwise nothing Taylor and Reid wouldn't have experienced first-hand will be known. If I stray from this intent at all and seem to be turning the rest of the B.A.U. into mindless drones who can't pull their own weight, _please_ tell me so that I can prevent going down that pathetic path.

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Review Responses

(Again, feel free to skip)

 **LeopardFeather:** Thank you so much for your review! Yours was the first I saw and when it popped up I felt my heart just soar! I was so worried that no one was going to like the path I chose to take and I'm so grateful to have feedback. I'm glad to hear that you think Reid's character isn't OOC as that was certainly one of my biggest worries.

 **ILR:** I'm sorry to hear that you don't care for the story but am glad that you took the time to review. Every opinion helps me to improve as a writer so this is GREATLY appreciated! I know it's not a unique story-line (trust me, I've read enough Reid x OC stories to last me a lifetime) but this honestly is more of my way of improving my writing in and of itself. Visual media such as T.V. Shows and Movies are vastly different in display and expression of pivotal information as compared to written media such as novels and fan-fictions. There's no audio to work with, no visual clues to help the reader along: it's all about the author's ability to describe and use their vocabulary and sentence fluency to get across the emotions and story they're trying to convey. So yes, the story is cliche. Yes, the plot is predictable and the cases and even some scenes are like holding a mirror to the show. But this is a personally imposed test to see if I can properly use my writing to convey a story, even one as cliché and overdone as this. Again, thank you so much for your comment.

 **lisabeth France:** Thanks! I most certainly will go on and am hoping to update weekly!

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" **You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could've, would've happened… or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the f*** on."** – _Tupac Shakur_

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Everyone faces trauma at some point in their lives. Perhaps not to the extent of witnessing the violent murder of the woman you love but to some extent. The statistics are irrefutable in that. As are the studies supporting the negative and sometimes deadly side-effects of failing to come to terms with it. And honestly I'm sure I have. I know Maeve is gone, that she's never coming back, and that regardless of the statistical probabilities and possibilities of different actions leading to a different outcome, I can never turn back the clock…

But every once in a while, even years later, my mind makes an unconscious decision to return to the day I lost her. Those are the days, these are the days, when I would prefer darkness to dreams. But though there are theoretical methods to preventing dreams, the science is scattered with cracks and holes. Sometimes I'm lucky and I dream of more pleasant times that never came to be, like a date with her or a dance. But as I wake up in a cold sweat, my hair matted together and sticking to my forehead, I'm left acutely aware of the recurring nightmare that has slowly been less and less common but still ever present.

A warm shower and a clean change of clothes helps to dismiss the memory from my mind, as does a swift reread of the worn but well-cared for copy of 'The Narrative of John Smith' tucked away in my work bag, my ever present companion. By now, I can mentally reread it from the hundreds of times I'd skimmed the pages, recite every one of the words from every one of the one hundred and twenty pages. But there's something about holding the book in my hands and skimming my fingers along the printed words as I flip through the pages that brings comfort to me; it's something that even the most logical part of me cannot explain.

My morning routine has become second nature after over a decade of repetition. So much so, that I find myself paying little attention as I walk through the glass doors of the F.B.I. building. It's only when I notice the solid, silver doors of the elevator sliding shut that I'm pulled away from my own mind. I swing my bag between them to set off the unseen motion sensor only to notice that I've inadvertently startled the woman standing inside. I send a smile and a quick apology her way, nodding a greeting as she seems to calm down. She seems familiar but the reason why seems to have been buried within the billions of other tangents of information scattered in my black-hole of a mind.

"Um, m-morning, which floor?" Her question is accompanied by a slight stutter, implying a nervous mood which is easily confirmed by her body language. Brief eye contact, short sentences, a slight hollow on her left cheek where she's biting down, and an inability to stop shuffling her feet. But the eye contact does return and with it comes a curiosity that makes me think, though I certainly wasn't questioning it before, that I'm right in believing that we've met before. Her voice is a soft soprano, quieted by nerves no doubt, but never the less useful in eliminating the possibilities of her identity.

"Uh, sixth, pl—hmm, you too," I note as my eyes fall onto the only backlit button on the display. The response is followed by silence as the elevator doors ding shut and I swiftly find myself taking in her physical traits and comparing them to every single person I've ever met. Short, dirty blonde, nearly pale brown hair cropped an inch above her shoulders with a right-parted side-bang tucked in place behind her ear; light beige skin with randomly scattered freckles, stormy blue eyes, and a small stature leaving her a little less than a foot below the crown of my own head. No distinguishing markers, no abnormal scars or physical traits. 'T-Thanks.'. The stuttering soprano in accompaniment with her physical appearance made the puzzle pieces finally mesh in my mind. Though it had likely been a mere handful of seconds, it was longer than it usually took me. "Watson," I blurted out, not quite sure why I thought that of all things would make her recollect our singular past encounter.

"Excuse me?" And as expected it didn't.

"You said you connected more with Watson than with Sherlock," I elaborate, thinking that a further explanation would make it fairly obvious.

"What?" Apparently not.

"Baker's Books on fifth last week." The addition of a time and place seemingly does the trick as I watch her expression morph from confusion to comprehension as a sheepish smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

"Nice to see you again too, Sherlock." I smile at the nickname, realization that neither of us know the others' name re-entering my mind due to the abrupt ending to our previous conversation. "Sorry it took me a moment to recollect, I'm so nervous my memory is practically shorting out." A tiny giggle falls from her lips and I come to the conclusion that she's here for an interview with Hotch. Intelligent, well versed in literature, and likely a good agent to even have been considered for an interview. I do wonder if she can handle the level of social interaction that comes with the job but then again, I certainly couldn't when I first joined the B.A.U. If Emily refuses to come back, she at least seems like she'd get along well with the team. Not an ideal addition but a decent one.

"Don't worry about it," I reply in correspondence with the ding of the elevator doors sliding open. The ten feet separating the elevator from the B.A.U. are quickly discarded behind us as I hold open the door for her, arching an eyebrow as she bows slightly in response.

"Ah, thank you kind sir," her voice has dropped a bit lower than before and increased in volume. Her nerves seem to have dispersed following the meeting of a semi-familiar face, even if it's only that of a three hour acquaintance from the week before.

"Agent Hotchner's office is the first one at the top of the stairs," I direct, gesturing at the first door of the back offices raised a mere three feet above the bull pen. "Good luck."

"Thanks, I appreciate it," she replies as I place my bag down at my desk. "Maria Taylor by the way," I turn back to face her and find that she's done the same while I had my back turned. "I just realized we still don't know each other's names." Oh. Right. I thought about that in the elevator, didn't I?

"Spencer Reid." I notice a slight shock come over her before she replaces it with a smile.

"… Dr. Reid. Thank you, Dr. Reid." Ah, she read my file. That explains the shock… I guess.

"I know, it surprised me too." I look up as Rossi and JJ enter the B.A.U., Garcia and Morgan following mere moments behind them.

"What? What surprised you?" Garcia seems off, but I figure that with Morgan by her side she's at least been talking about it and don't see any reason to question it.

"Hotch talked to Emily…"

"And?" Rossi is quickly interrupted by the tech analyst.

"She just doesn't want to come back."

"What? Why? She loves us!"

"For what it's worth, Hotch is interviewing someone I've met before," I inject with a small shrug, plopping down in my chair. The attention of my friends is quickly directed at me.

"He is?" JJ tries to take a peek through Hotch's blinds to no avail.

"How many candidates is that now?"

"This one makes lucky number ten."

"What? See, this is what happens when I don't sleep." So that's why Garcia's off this morning. "I miss things. Who is this person? Are they nice? Why is that the first question I always ask?" Her gaze is on me and I'm about to respond when her tablet dings and interrupts. "Oh no…" We all know that look and quickly shift energies.

* * *

We all quickly shift location to the round table, the sound of Garcia alerting Hotch vaguely present in the background. Garcia makes a quick entry, remote in hand and closely followed by Hotch.

"Everyone, this is SSA Maria Taylor from Andy Swan's unit. She'll be joining the team." Agent Taylor is right behind him, sharing a tight smile with the team before taking the empty seat at the table, following it with a barely audible greeting.

"Hi, nice to meet you."

"Congratulations."

"Welcome, welcome."

"I'm surprised we didn't meet you during the human trafficking investigation in 2011."

"My nephew had the flu. I did what I could from my home office but most of my time was spent caring for him," the response to Morgan's question is quick and calculated. The tone reminds me more of our conversation in the bookstore than in the elevator, her nerves are gone and what I expect is a more accurate representation of her work-attitude is revealed.

"We can get started," Hotch chimes in.

"Yes we can." Garcia brings up the photographs and my attention is quickly diverted to file as I skim over it once again, searching for changes and new information that has been added since my last glance over. "Uh, the Mad Butcher of Bakersfield has left another torso in the desert. This brings the body count to three this month, and still none of them have been identified."

"At this pace he's going for a record."

"Hmm," A hum of agreement echoes from my right and in my periphery I can see Agent Taylor studying the photographs of the crimes scenes. An action that I mimic despite my first run through being more than enough. My eyes are scanning every disturbing pixel of the images, my mind trying and yet not trying to focus on the fact that what have now become little more than abandoned lumps are flesh are actually human torsos and that those torsos were once living, breathing people. It's a mental struggle that I've faced for over a decade now. Endlessly trying to decide what perspective to take. Seeing them as the human-beings they once were keeps me motivated to find justice for them and closure for their loved ones. Seeing them as decaying corpses keeps me sane. For now, I keep a mental distance, my motivation is plenty high right now and I need to focus on the details and statistics, figuring out who is behind all of this. The time for accepting the unneeded loss of human life will come later. "There's the obvious imagery associated with a lifeless torso."

"Right, a torso alone can't survive. It might be how he sees himself," Rossi agrees.

"It could also just be a simple forensic counter measure," JJ argues though by this point the conversation is mere audio as I scan through the files once again, my brain connecting and searching for links as fast as my neurons can fire. Every pixel is memorized, the abandoned locations in the desert are a quantifiable counter-measure, statistically lowering the chance of the bodies being found quickly. "He dumps the bodies after getting rid of all the parts that could be used to identify his victims."

"That would make sense if he were criminal sophisticated, but this guy's leaving his DNA all over the torsos." Morgan's comment is the last thing I actually pay attention to as I read over the M.E.'s report, a pattern emerging that strikes a strange development in the profile of the UNSUB. He kept them alive. At least two days of living torture while he cut off their limbs one by one before putting an end to their suffering. Some days I feel uncomfortable with the simplicity with which I've learned to deal with these things. After my nightmare last night, today is turning into one of those days.

"Hey Einstein." Ultimately it's Rossi's voice that brings me back from my thoughts and I look up, a question hum reverberating in response. "You're awfully quiet."

"I'm just reading here that the M.E. thinks the victims were alive for forty eight hours while he disarticulates," My gaze meets Taylor's pondering one.

"So the UNSUB's sexual gratification comes from the act of cutting itself rather than the mere concept of dismemberment."

"Exactly," my response is instant, a brief acknowledgement of our newest member's quick acclimation to the team dynamic passing through my mind before I continue on. "He wouldn't go to these extremes if he were merely discarding the limbs."

"No, he enjoys the ritual too much to do that. Even if the limbs are eventually discarded, which for all we know they might not be. It's possible that the limbs are being kept as trophies of sorts. A way for him to relive the torture of his victims perhaps?" I nod, she's got a point.

"He'd need preserving agents and isolation," Hotch cuts in. "Garcia, come up with a list of suppliers in Southern California. We'll cross that with a geographical profile when we have it." My job. Already my brain is running the numbers, taking in the locations of the dump sites and terrain of the area. Once we identify the victims we can add their abduction sites and calculate that in with the people possessing sufficient supplies and separation from society.

"Keywords sodium dioxide and silicate." I add for Garcia's sake as the team begins to get up.

"You're the best, thank you."

"Tell them we're on our way."

"Yes, sir." I get up to leave, grabbing my go bag and only barely catching the barely audible comment directed without question at me from Agent Taylor.

"Impressive Sherlock."

* * *

" **Each day holds a surprise. But only if we expect it can we see, hear, or feel it when it comes to us. Let's not be afraid to receive each day's surprise, whether it comes to us as sorrow or as joy. It will open a new place in our hearts, a place where we can welcome new friends and celebrate more fully our shared humanity."** – _Henri Nouwen_

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Just wanted to add in a quick apology for the late update. I'm hoping to update weekly but, wouldn't you know it, winter hits and like clockwork I get a cold. My only joy is that my little brother suffered through it as well. That's my revenge for the stomach bug he gave me last month. I'll do my best to get the next chapter out on time. I know that most of this is repetitive but I want to see how people react to the writing style I tend to use. Rotating between the first person perspective of two characters isn't new for me but this is the first piece I've written in that style that I've put out into the world. So feedback on it would be highly appreciated! But as always, any feedback of any kind is adored!

 **~ Warp Out**


	3. Chapter 3: A Nervous Nature (Part 1)

Chapter 3: A Nervous Nature (Part 1)

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Author's Note

(feel free to skip)

Hello. I just wanted to get out a quick little blurb on my extended absence. I am an avid rock-climber and my last excursion the day after I posted Chapter 2 ended in some rather painful mishaps. No one's fault but my own as I forgot my gloves that day. Anyway, I suffered from some serious rope burn which rendered me unable to type, write, or do much at all with my hands really. I am happy to say that although typing with bandages is still a little odd (using a touch screen is IMPOSSIBLE), I am functional enough to get this out to you wonderful readers. I might have to take another absence when the bandages come off since my skin will be pretty raw and sensitive but I'll try to do my best and get new material out to you as quickly as my mummy hands can handle.

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Review Responses

(again, feel free to skip)

 **LeopardFeather:** Thank you once again for the wonderful review. I was rather worried as Chapter 2 was my first attempt at writing from Reid's perspective. I hope you continue to enjoy the story and look forward to more of Reid next chapter.

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 **"Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt."** – _William Shakespeare (Measure for Measure)_

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My gaze drifts out the window at the blur of white and blue sky outside the jet. Part of me is sorely tempted to look turn around and look down at the vast expanse of empty space separating the aircraft from the ground. Heights have always been a comforting thing and right now I could use something to calm my nerves. Though I do everything I can to maintain the outer appearance of the calm and collected F.B.I. agent my mind is still enthralled by the unanswered question I'd asked during my interview with Agent Hotchner. How do they not take it with them? All the people, all the victims, all the families and loved ones… How does it not weigh down on them? Just looking through the file held tightly in hands, I feel the familiar pool of anger and disgust churning in my stomach. Or maybe I just forgot to take my acid reflux medication this morning… I was in a rush… Did I take it? I'll counter-balance with a base later on just in case.

Though I'm personally one who appreciates silence, now is quickly becoming one of those times that I would rather avoid it for the sake of my sanity or risk losing myself in my own thoughts. I scan over the pictures, the descriptions, and the reports searching for a comment to make to break the unending quiet that is currently only permeated by the low hum of the plane's engine. Though I'd long ago learned not to let the endless flow of worries affect my work in sex crimes, new situations are always a struggle. Every question I'd asked Randy this morning seems to be flashing through my mind. What if I'm not good enough? What if I let the bad guy get away? What if I'm not useful? What if the best I can do just isn't enough to be able to be a productive member of the team? Okay. I really need a distraction.

"So, um, 'The Mad Butcher of Bakersfield'? I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume the media are to blame for that one." Please someone, anyone, say something, anything. I'll even take someone telling me to shut up at this point. I find myself looking over at Dr. Reid, who is re-reading the case for what is likely the millionth time since we've gotten on the jet. Please look up Sherlock! I know you can talk like a Muppet. You could probably talk about anything and everything for hours without issue. Or no, don't see the silent plead for the silence to end. Thanks a lot. The only person I'm even semi-friendly with isn't even paying attention. Fudge nuggets.

"This is Los Angles, they make everything into a spectacle." Yes! Thank you- oh shit, I forgot her name. Jerome? Jermaine? Jeroe? Yeah, Jeroe. Something Jeroe. Oh geez, now is not the time to have a brain fart Maria!

"He's probably enjoying the attention," I mutter, shoving the words out of my mouth half-heartedly. What is her name? This is going to drive me insane. Embarrassing as it is, I'm probably just going to have to ask. First day of my dream job and this is the first impression I make on my co-workers. Wonderful. I'm going to have to empty the half-billion names shoved inside my memory banks for the sake of professionalism. This is what happens when I let my brothers introduce me to their friends. I start running out of space. Faces? Those I can remember. Names? Limited storage space on those before my brain starts taking shortcuts.

"They always do." I'll just ask her after the case. Or whenever I get the chance.

"He spared his second victim from mutilation but the first and latest are covered in them." Oh thank goodness! Conversation. "There's no clear purpose, he might be experimenting." Work talk. Work talk I can do, get in the zone Taylor, and let's do this. You can talk shop. Profile, make yourself useful.

"Maybe he's removing identifying markers? Tattoos or birthmarks perhaps?" The hesitation is obvious and my voice is quiet, barely audible. I mean honestly I won't be surprised if no one heard me. As Rossi makes his next comment, I actually start to think that maybe they didn't. The team carries on back and forth as I slide into the seat next to me, leaning against the table is starting to dig into my thighs. Though I do my best to listen and even participate where I think I can be of use, it's getting harder and harder not to doubt my intuition. Are serial killers even all that similar in their behavior to sex offenders? Humans are humans but when divided into subcategories do I even know enough of the correct information? I'm never one to turn down a chance to learn but what if they want someone who already knows exactly what they're doing? I know enough to get hired but do I know enough to stay hired? Ever since I found out about the B.A.U. I've wanted to join, it's been my dream job, but what if I just don't have what it takes?

"… Taylor go to the latest disposal site." My attention is pulled back from the realm of no return to the conversation at hand. Disposal site. Check. Wait. Who am I going with? Am I going alone? Rossi's looking at me. Am I going with Rossi? I think I'm going with Rossi. Please don't let me be wrong. "And J.J. and I will get set up with Lieutenant Banks at the P.D." J.J. so something with a J Jeroe. Dammit I'm still gonna have to ask her what her name is later. Calling her by a nickname that I can't be certain is preferred or not is just too… nerve wracking. Speaking of nerves, it seems that's all I am today. Brilliant.

* * *

Agnostic as I may be, I find myself thanking god that my skills of observation haven't been entirely overrun by my near out of control nerves. The sounds of birds can be heard vaguely in the distance and the abandoned skeleton of what I imagine used to be a storage shed or something of the sort stands vacant in a mere dozen yards from the SUV. Sunshine pours through the cloudless atmosphere, most of it finding refuge in the rust-covered beams while a few stray rays attempt to blind me with the assistance of the few spots of un-rusted metal. In that moment, I'm grateful for the silence of the car ride there. But now, it's time to catch the sick son of a B behind this.

"You led the Ludwig investigation in upstate New York." It's not a question. Yet in my mind it feels like one, the non-existent request for an answer pulling me out of my silent stupor. My head bobs up and down once, my hands slipping into the pockets of my pants. Ludwig isn't an investigation I like to be reminded of. There were plenty of victims we saved, children who didn't have to loose their innocence before they even had the self-understanding to acknowledge that they were innocent. But there were far too many we were too late to help. After a year long investigation, I had known we wouldn't save them all. It's not often we can... could. Those days and that team are behind me. The faces, the eyes, of those children are what haunt my dreams, my nightmares. It was two years ago that we wrapped up that case and though they've started to dissipate, every now and again I see those eyes appear in the darkness behind my eyelids projected by my mind's eye.

"You know the story?" My voice sounds quiet even to me. I know Rossi can read me. I don't try to hide my emotions, I've long since learned that there's no point. I can practically see my own appearance. The vacant stare and exhausted posture.

"Well, it was all over the news so I saw the arrest. He was all busted up, broken nose and everything." That memory snaps me out of it. A small smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth and I can almost feel the light return to my eyes.

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when they trip over their feet, right?" It's not much of a joke but it's meaningful in its purpose. The past is back where it belongs and memories are just that. The sentiment is only solidified by Rossi's echo of my smirk.

"Oh, yeah, I've seen that happen before." I can't help the small chuckle that falls from my lips. But the serious look that morphs onto his face brings about the return of my former neutral expression. "I know that case couldn't have been easy." No kidding. But then again...

"I've never known one that was." A sad smile flickers briefly across my face before my feet bring me from forward. Literally. Time to move on. The structure is just as abandoned inside as it appears from the outside if not more so. Garbage and wild foliage are scattered all across the dirt ground. The only clean items are the shiny yellow markers placed there by the local officers.

"All the dump sites are pretty isolated but this one takes the cake."

"Yeah and why not bury the torso? Leaving it exposed, even in an out of the way place like this is still a risk. I doubt if he buried it around here anyone would've found it nearly as quick as we did." Even out here in the middle of nowhere a freshly dug grave would've quickly become solid earth. Animals and weather would've made quick work of the remains and it certainly wouldn't have been discovered by some adventuring child. Speaking of which, here's hoping the kid isn't too traumatized. "Maybe it's remorse?" The skepticism in my voice is obvious, to me at least. I bite back a sigh as my mind acknowledges that no matter who much I try to deny, I'm still just as worried as I was this morning. All the questions and concerns I voiced to Randy, the jokes I made with Marcus last night, and even the over-excited nature of my conversations with Chloe and Alec yesterday. I'm nervous. This team has done so much good and helped so many people. They've brought closure to hundreds of mourning loved ones and turned something that wasn't even considered a real concept, behavioral analysis, into a widely recognized way of tracking down criminals. What have I done to warrant joining such a talented group of individuals? Gone undercover pretending to be a fellow sicko? Spent hours online profiling words with multiple meanings and convincing bastards to put themselves in vulnerable positions? It's always a team effort, like the cogs of a clock, and here I feel like I've been installed wrong. My acquaintanceship with Dr. Reid is purely coincidental and my relationship with Rossi and Hotch are purely professional through the qualification and interview process. There's a personal connection between the people here that I'm just not a part of. That I don't fit into. Maybe it's not fair for me to be so self-judgmental on my first day on the job but no matter what distraction I try it seems my mind refuses to ignore the pressing feeling of uselessness swelling up in my gut. The vague sound of Rossi spit-balling ideas brings me back to reality.

"It doesn't sound much like a sadist, does it?" Crap. Was there more to that sentence? Probably. I really need to stop zoning out. I shake my head, partly in answer to his question and partly as an attempt to clear the circular thoughts berating my conscious mind. First case Maria, your first case. Time to change your mentality and do your best. If you can't believe your own words of encouragement then fake it until you do.

"No… it doesn't." I think. Actually that's what caused this problem. No more thinking, just talk, let the filter fall away and regret everything after you make a fool of yourself Maria. "Everything this guy does screams compulsivity. I highly doubt that he's capable of shutting off his urges. He's probably counting down the hours until his next kill, probably got it marked on a calendar." Okay, bad brain, no jokes, stop. "But he's got gaps between them, times with no victim. So what the heck is he doing to pass the time?" There. Good question to make up for bad joke. Good girl. Have a cookie when this is all over. Or fudge up later and take away that privilege. Probably the later. I almost miss the look of comprehension that flashes across Rossi's face before he pulls out his phone.

"He obsesses. He's not disposing them, he's displaying them. It's part of his fantasy. We need to set up surveillance at all the other sites." Understanding reaches me and I look around as if expecting to see the perp hiding in the shadows. That sinking feeling in my gut returns and I can feel the bile rising in my throat. I really did forget to take my reflux meds this morning didn't I?

"He's revisiting."

* * *

 **"Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom."** \- _Soren Kierkegaard (The Concept of Anxiety: A Simple Psychologically Orienting Deliberation on the Dogmatic Issue of Hereditary Sin)_


End file.
